Klepto
by Cohen101
Summary: PreRent; A glimpse into what makes Mark so seem awkward and tepid. Touches on how Mark and Roger met.


_A/N: I seem to be in a strange zone lately... Feedback would be awesome because it makes sense to me but that may not be the case for all..._

Mark hits rock bottom and he knows it.

Knows it even before comes to the police station to retrieve him.

Knows it even before he has to sit through another one of Collins' humiliating lectures.

Knows it even before he picks up the camera to go out that day.

'Cause Mark has a secret and he's not going to be able to keep it under control for much longer.

- - - - -

There's a convenience store down the block and every time that Mark passes it, his fingers itch.

It's not his fault he feels it. If it's anyone's fault, it's Jerkins'. That bastard.

("Mark!"

He presses his head deeper into the scratchy pillow beneath his head. The pale yellow of the room is glowing lightly in the fading sunlight but Mark doesn't see any magic in the trick of light. All he sees is poor and lonely.)

His fingers itch, his jaw clenches, his shoulders tighten.

("Mark!" the voice yells again, becoming more irritated.

Fingers curl into fists as the thin blanket beneath them bunches. "What?!" he hollers back, eye closed tight behind glasses.

"Get the fuck down here and take the damn trash out already!")

It was never that simple. He could never just walk past it. For the first couple weeks he tried- oh, god, how he'd tried, but nothing worked.

(A loud grumble and he releases the fabric in his hands, sitting up. If only it stopped at taking out the trash he'd be fine. Content.)

No one could ever understand it- not even Collins. Roger didn't even try anymore. It started too young and it didn't stop.

It couldn't be stopped.

(All day he'd been washing the walls of the clock store downstairs and his arms ached. What he really wanted was to just lie back in bed and relax for a couple minutes. What he really wanted was to tell Jerkins to go fuck himself. Mark pushes himself off the ladder and crosses the hall, looking into the kitchen.

Maybe if he's fast enough…)

It had started as a nervous quirk, one that was quickly exploited. People paid attention to him just long enough to write him off as another awkward boy. Then they let their guard down and he couldn't help it. It wasn't his fault. He wouldn't be like this if people took him seriously.

("Trash," Jerkins growls, pointing at the bulging black bag. And then the dreaded words; "Get us a couple wallets while you're at it."

Mark clenches his jaw, trying hard not to frown. Jerkins knows that he hates stealing.

But Jerkins also knows that Mark will never get caught.)

Even though he doesn't want to go it, Mark can't deny the itch. The craving- it's not even something he enjoys doing and for a second he's jealous of the addicts on the street around him.

At least they got to experience some sort of ecstasy somewhere between withdrawal and homelessness.

All he gets is a little less of one guilt and a little more of another.

(As Mark hesitates in the doorway Jerkins begins to get impatient; "Get going, and be back before sunset."

Mark grips the plastic waste bag in his hands as it begins to slip.

He wishes he could crawl inside of it.)

At first in New York it started practical: a package of strings for Roger, a battered book Collins had been eyeing.

He slipped into the store, smiling at the cashier just enough for him to return his gaze to the small black and white television.

Inside Mark cringes, begging the cashier to look at him. Badger him, tell him to show the money or get out.

Pay attention to him.

Outside Mark starts going down an isle, his back shielding his hands, mind already aware of the placement of cameras.

(He wishes he could be taken out with the trash, disposed of.

Because he knows that he is trash, will always be trash.

He's a hindrance to society- a delinquent and one of the worst kinds at that.

One that everyone overlooked.)

By the time Mark left the store his right pocket was full of Kit-Kat bars and his left is filled with cans of tuna.

(A man talking on a cell phone, dressed up nice in a suit with his coat slung over a briefcase holding arm.

When Mark gets the wallet he finds twenty-three dollars and seven cents in change.

He takes the money and throws the wallet into the gutter.)

When he moved to New York, it started off small, but then, just like everything else that starts of small and practical- seemingly inconsequential, it got bigger and needlessly vain.

They'd pass a fruit stand and he'd take an orange.

("We'll be doing this until I can't feel you touching it.")

They'd be at the store and he'd take a chocolate bar.

("If you don't come back with at least fifty dollars, don't come back at all!")

They'd be buying alcohol and he'd swipe a forty of Stoli.

("And if you get caught by the police, where do you live?")

They'd almost be home and someone would be withdrawing money from an ATM. The mechanical counter inside would whirl and splutter, spit out a wad of cash.

Mark would hang back and get it.

("I thought I told you to come straight back here!")

There was no lesser of two evils.

("Do you want to sleep outside in the trash tonight? Do you?!")

There was no silver lining on this storm cloud.

("That's it you useless piece of shit! Next time you come back empty handed you're going to bed empty stomach!")

There was no cliché he could fall back on. Nothing behind him that would catch him should he fall.

("Mark, honey, have you seen the five dollars I left on the table for Cindy?"

"No Mom," he answers automatically, almost as compulsive a liar as he is a cheat. The second word still sounds strange in his mouth, feels odd coming out.

Slowly he's getting used to it.)

"Mark, you seen my twenty dollars?"

"Yes," Mark answered, because he couldn't lie to Roger. Not after what Roger did for him.

"I swear I left it on the fucking table…"

It's not his fault Roger didn't hear him.

("Mr. Cohen, did you or did you not take Mr. Spangles notebook?"

Mark can't say anything because he has. And he promised Roger he would try to stop lying.)

"Mark… what's under your coat?"

Mark panics, eyes wide and wild. Caught, caught, caught, caughtcaughtcaughtcaught. He's finally been caught.

("Why do you do it?"

It's a curious question, - no accusation, not even a trace.

"Because I feel bad if I don't.")

"Mark, man, calm down."

But Mark can't calm down because he's already running in the opposite direction, away from someone who knows and _isn't_ Roger.

("Don't you feel bad for doing it through?"

"Yes. But I can't not."

And the boy named Roger just nods, and takes the notebook from Mark's frozen hand.)

Roger finds him on the floor of the loft, curled into a tight ball, hugging his knees.

"Mark! Fuck! What the hell… Mark, you okay? Fuck…"

("I found it on the floor," Roger explains innocently, handing the notebook over to the teacher, "It was under the bookcase by the coats."

Mark twitches against the wall next to the doorway, paranoid that someone will find him. Arrest him. Figure him out.)

There's a coat over him now but he can't move because he's paralyzed with fear.

"What did you take Mark? What was it this time?"

Someone other than Roger knows.

(He takes the money, uses the chaos of the hallway as a distraction.)

"Mark, buddy, it's going to be okay."

(He hands it back to Roger, who trails behind him wordlessly.)

"Whatever it is, I'm sure we can fix it Mark."

("Hey, excuse me! You dropped this," Roger says suddenly, materializing out of nowhere, money in his hand extended and a bright, innocent smile on his face.)

"We're a team, remember. I've got you Mark, just tell me what's wrong."

(It feels bad not taking it.

It feels bad taking it.

He can't feel when he gives it to Roger…

And then it feels something else.)

"Mark, what did you take?"

Collins comes through the door and he's pissed; "Where the fuck is he?!"

("Hey Markie?" Roger asks, bleary eyed and partially unconscious.

Mark tilts his head up so that he can see the dim outline of Roger's face on his bed. "Yes Roger?")

"Collins, chill out! What happened?"

Mark is still on the floor and he hears the yells and automatically they get associated with his guilt and everything from that point on becomes instinct.

("I don't get why you do it," Roger mutters, yawning halfway through the sentence. "But I'll always be there for you, right?"

Mark regards Roger for a second, because he's promised Roger he won't ever lie to him.

He won't ever lie to Roger. "Yeah.")

Roger stands between him and Collins, between him and anger and punishment and he curls up tighter into his little ball, sick to his stomach.

"Back off Collins, you're not going to touch him."

"He took my vase Roger! He took it!"

("Mark, the principle called. He said you stole two hundred dollars from the fundraiser. Did you?"

"No," Mark answers instantly, because it's not Roger and he can lie.)

It sounds so ridiculous Roger wants to laugh; it's Collins and he's whining about a vase.

But Mark is still curled behind him, at his feet, frozen and paralyzed and Roger pushes Collins away again. "Back off- he wasn't going to keep it."

("Roger," he whispers into the phone. He's grounded and the money is burning a smoking pit into his bed and he isn't going to be able to sleep tonight. "Roger, I need you."

"What happened?" Roger whispers back- it's too late for their parents to agree the phone call was necessary.)

"He-… What? How do you know?" Everything Collins knows about Mark no longer makes sense, Roger can see it falling apart in his eyes.

Mark's face is still pressing against his knees but he can hear the commotion around him, registering that Roger is still standing. Still protecting him.

Roger's always there.

("Mr. Thorne, I want to talk to you about something… but I don't want to." Roger's trying to convey reluctance and for all the lying Mark hasn't been doing, Roger makes up for.

"Anything Roger. What's the matter?"

"I found something, but I don't want it to seem like it was my fault."

Roger's a professional at this- he can woo any woman or man.)

"Look, Mark's got…"

Mark squeaks, but he doesn't want to stop Roger if Roger wants to tell. He trusts Roger to take care of him, because that's what Roger's always done, since the day that they met.

"He's got a problem."

("Mark, have you seen my keys?"

Mark loves that even after all they've been through, Roger doesn't automatically assume it's his fault.

But he hates how it is his fault.)

Collins says he understands but Mark doesn't feel comfortable around him, like he does around Roger.

It doesn't help that he knows Collins steals.

It bugs him because Collins isn't programmed the way he is.

It bugs him because for Collins, it isn't default.

- - - - -

He's hit rock bottom and he doesn't know how to stop spiraling out of control.

Doesn't know what to do, where to go, how to get out of this rabbit hole of shit.

But Mark's beside him like always, helping him stand, helping him sit up, helping him lie down.

"I'm going to die Mark," he rasps and Mark winces, like he does every time anyone talks about death.

Mark shakes his head and Roger raises an arm and grabs his ear to stop him from shaking.

The shaking stops.

"You don't have to do this," Roger whispers, letting his hand fall from Mark's ear and down his arm. "Why are you doing this- I can't ever do the same for you."

And Mark's crying and Roger has tears on his face. "But you would Roger," Mark whispers, choking up. Because Roger doesn't think that he can pay Mark back, but he's backwards on the whole thing.

Roger doesn't have to pay Mark back- Mark's paying Roger back.

"You would and you did. And you would, even if you didn't have to. I'm just trying to do the same thing."


End file.
